


The Triads

by praiseofshadows



Series: that arthurian series I'm not writing [4]
Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-02-15 01:04:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13020003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/praiseofshadows/pseuds/praiseofshadows
Summary: The time before the Quest.





	1. Pentecost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sir knight,” the boy says. “Are you quite well?”

After Galahad’s hasty dubbing, Lancelot instructs Galahad to ride to Camelot at Pentecost in secret. Galahad obeys. When he arrives, the courtyard is all but deserted with the court already assembled at Arthur’s feast. Only the stable still shows signs of life. A boy Galahad’s own age has a small child hoisted on one hip so that the child can feed one of the great destriers a carrot. It’s clear neither the boy nor the child are stableboys. From the fineness of their clothes, Galahad presumes the boy is squire to the knight that owns the horse and that the child – since he is fair where the boy is dark – is the knight’s son.

The boy turns as Galahad enters, and Galahad can only stare – dumbstruck – at the perfection of his face, finally understanding what Severus meant when he wrote that St. Martin was purer than glass and whiter than milk.

“Sir knight,” the boy says. “Are you quite well?”

And Galahad says, automatically, “I am no knight.” And then promptly closes his mouth because his father has dubbed him not a fortnight past. Moreover, he’s in arms and spurs, and his white surcoat is emblazoned with the arms of King Ban. “Or rather. I am. But very newly made.”

The child in the boy’s arms wiggles and is promptly set down. “Stay,” the boy says, not unkindly, to the child before stepping over to take the reins of Galahad’s horse from Galahad’s slack fingers. This close, Galahad can see that the other boy’s eyes are a dark green, so dark they could pass for black.   “I’ll stable your horse, sir knight,” the boy says. He looks past Galahad towards the main of the castle, those dark green eyes knowing. “Else you’ll miss your grand entrance.”

Galahad’s face warms. “It was my father’s idea,” he says because he can’t stand the thought of this perfect boy thinking him a perfect ass.

The boy smiles and steps forward to minutely adjust the hang of Galahad’s surcoat with his free hand, fingers briefly curling into Galahad’s belt.   The touch burns, despite the layers of cloth and mail between. “No doubt,” he says. “The pageantry of your arrival has much of du Lac.” He looks up at Galahad through long dark lashes. “And none of you, I think. But you must go all the same. The king waits for no man.”

“I-I thank you,” Galahad says for he is not so far gone that he cannot remember his manners. “And if I am ever in a position to render you service, you have but to –“

“ _Don’t_ ,” the boy interrupts, voice sharp as he draws back. “Don’t make wide promises such as that, sir knight. Not here at Camelot. You have no idea what you might be asked to do.” He smiles again, but this time there’s something dark behind it. It dulls not his beauty and only serves to leave Galahad with the utterly inappropriate urge to take the boy in his arms and kiss the darkness away.

Galahad instead manages a, “Your pardon,” and a perfunctory bow before turning on one heel and making towards the hall.

“Luck,” the boy calls after him, which does nothing to quell the sharp ache in Galahad's loins.

#

Later, after a prodigious feast and after his father has commended him to the king and Sir Gawain and a good number of other knights besides, Galahad's led to his seat at the round table. The other knights that make up the company are all arrayed, the rich embroidery of their arms vivid against the white of their surcoats. And in the seat next right to his own sits the boy from the stables, in arms and the deep purple and gold of Orkney emblazoned on his breast.

“Sir Mordred,” his father says, though the introduction is grudging in a way the others that have come before were not, “I recommend my son to you.” To Galahad he says only, “This is Sir Gawain’s youngest brother.”

“We’ve met,” the boy says.

He does not smile, and Galahad is right glad of it for he’s not sure what would happen if he did.

#

Later still, the boy – _Mordred_ – slips into the quarters Galahad’s been assigned.  

“I warned you, sir knight,” Mordred says, “to make no unknown promises.”

“Aye,” Galahad says, “so you did, but I’ve always known my destiny is to find the Grail.”

“The quest for it will kill you,” Mordred says.   He’s leaning against the closed door, one foot off the floor and propped against the heavy wood. Like Galahad, he’s out of arms and clad in hose and doublet only, though his boots are still as free of spurs as they were in the stables.

“Perhaps,” Galahad acknowledges. Then, “You could join our company. I know you did not swear at the ceremony but surely the king would – “

“No,” Mordred says, shaking his head. “The king will never part with me. And I think you would find your new compeers quite vexed if they knew what you just offered.”

“But you are a knight of the round table,” Galahad says because it has bothered him all evening: this coldness to a fellow knight. “And Sir Gawain’s own brother.”

Mordred smiles a third time, cold and sharp like a winter’s night. “That is not all I am, sir knight. Even you, raised in the obscurity of your aunt’s abbey cannot claim ignorance of _that_.”

It is treason to speak of it, to give power to the terrible story that their most just and true king lay down with his own sister. And then, when he’d learnt he’d begot a babe upon her, he'd attempted to rid the north of all babes born in that same May.

“You are not your father,” Galahad says. At some point during the conversation he’s walked toward Mordred without awareness of it.  In the moonlight, Mordred’s eyes are no less knowing than they were in the stables, and Galahad is sure that Mordred can see each and every one of Galahad’s shameful desires. But Mordred makes no move to escape, content to lean against the door, as the space between them grows ever smaller. Galahad thinks, incoherently, of sirens and shipwrecks, before bracketing Mordred to the door and giving into the madness that had almost overwhelmed him in the stables.

It’s no kiss of friendship, not with Mordred’s lips parting obligingly so that Galahad can slip his tongue between. For Galahad is not entirely ignorant of the sin of what two boys can do together. On Candlemas last, his aunt had dismissed two oblates from her service for this very crime though Galahad’s sure neither of them felt as good as Galahad does now, what with Mordred’s clever fingers making short work of the laces of Galahad’s hose to curl about Galahad’s eager prick.


	2. Advent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sirs, it is Advent,” Sir Aglovale says reprovingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for (rather graphic) animal death.

Advent at court is much like Advent at the abbey, the only difference being that there are great many more dispensations at court than Galahad's lady aunt would allow. Although with the way Sir Gawain drills, the dispensation for the knights is one Galahad is right glad of for he's not sure how else he could survive without meat and hot wine on those Ember Days that coincide with his name appearing on Sir Gawain's training roster.

In fact, on this particular Ember Day, he picks up the wine cup almost before the page is finished pouring, cupping his hands around it so that the warmth of the wine can bring feeling back into his numb fingers.

"You're going to burn yourself," Mordred warns as he slides onto the bench beside him.

"Better than the alternative," Galahad responds as he takes a drink.  The wine is overly sweet and terribly spiced, but it's near scalding and at this moment, that's all that matters.  As Mordred's name is always curiously missing from Sir Gawain's training roster, Galahad childishly drains the cup dry without first offering it to Mordred.

Mordred seems more amused by this lack of manners than anything else and makes a point of ensuring that all of the stewed coney - not just the good bits - makes it way to Galahad's side of the plate.

Halfway through his second cup of the horrible wine, Galahad feels less like ice is still flowing through his veins and more like a flesh and blood human.  He's even on the verge of working up to polite conversation, perhaps asking Mordred how he spent his morning since it is very clear he was _not_ out-of-doors, when Sir Claudin, smudges of frozen dirt still on his face and moving very gingerly, sits down opposite Mordred and demands to the table at large, "Does Sir Gawain ever sleep?" 

"I've always been under the impression that my lord brother takes 'and He rested on the seventh day from all His work' as a challenge," Mordred says. 

Galahad just manages to bite back a very inappropriate burst of laughter by taking a long sip of wine.  Sir Claudin is not so lucky, letting loose a “ha!” that seems to echo up and down the table.

Sir Aglovale, seated next to Sir Claudin and sharing his cup and plate, looks from Sir Claudin back to Mordred, as if unsure who to blame more: Mordred for the blasphemy or Sir Claudin for taking amusement.

“Sirs, it is Advent,” Sir Aglovale says reprovingly.  He makes a point of serving himself from the mess of salted cod, eschewing the stewed coney entirely.

“Is it?” Mordred asks, making a show of widening his eyes.  He signals for the page to pour Galahad a third cup.  “That’s luck, then.  I’ve been wanting to see a miracle play.”  He turns to Galahad.  “What say you, sir knight? Do you not crave a showing of the Final Judgment?”

It is one thing to jest about Sir Gawain and another to intentionally bait Sir Aglovale, and so Galahad feels no guilt whatsoever as he kicks Mordred – rather hard – under the table.

#

Any retaliation by Mordred to this juvenile affront to his person is cut short by the king announcing - voice full of cheer - that Sir Gawain has graciously offered to set out on the morrow to hunt wild boar.

By rights, Mordred should be at the high table, though Arthur has a tendency to rotate among his family and favourites so that no single one of them is  _always_  provided a seat, especially when there are guests or champions that Arthur must do honour.  However, it's clear from the look on Mordred’s face that he would not have allowed Sir Gawain to make such an offer had he been sitting there.  Though it's unclear, judging from the short flash of surprise that appears on Sir Gawain's face before he rises and bows and declaims that he will slay the mightiest boar this side of the river Severn, if Sir Gawain  _did_  actually make an offer, or if the king just decided he wished for wild boar and determined that his nephew was to fetch it for him.

Not to be out-done, Lancelot rises, and Galahad watches with narrowed eyes as his father attempts to volunteer his services as well.  It seems more for show than anything else, and once the queen interjects to declare that she cannot possibly be without her champion, not even for a day, he is a bit too quick to sit back down.

“I shall go,” Mordred announces.  The hall quiets as he makes his way to stand before the high table. 

“By god, you shall not,” Arthur says, all warmth gone from his voice.  He half rises from his chair, palms pressed flat to the table as he leans over it to glare down at Mordred.  And a king is never petulant, so it is not petulance in Arthur’s voice when he continues, “You are needed here.”

“To do what, sire?” Mordred counters.  He stands defiant and pays no heed to the king’s purpling face.

“Whatever I command,” Arthur says, voice low and full of gravel.  It’s a terrible voice that promises terrible things, and Galahad knows he has to act and act _now_.

“By your leave,” Galahad says, rising from his seat and pushing himself in front of Mordred,  “if my lord father cannot be spared, consider me at your service.”  He bows to Arthur.  “And at yours, of course, Sir Gawain.”

Sir Gawain is not and has never been a fool, and so he says, “I would welcome you, sir, if but mine uncle will consent.  Uncle, what say you?  Should not Sir Galahad join the hunt?” 

There’s a long pause, but the anger slowly fades from Arthur’s eyes, replaced by the drunken joviality of before. He settles back into his chair and signals for more wine before saying, “Indeed he shall.”  He picks up his newly filled wine cup and proposes a toast to good hunting and good fortune, and the rest of the room – even those who have no dispensations and thus are drinking but water – join in a bit too quickly, so eager are they to encourage the return of the king’s good mood.

 #

The day of the hunt dawns even more bitterly cold than the last. Galahad has to break the ice that's formed in his water basin overnight before washing his face, and even after he's dressed in successive layers of wool, leather and fur, he still shivers.

It's a penance, he supposes, for his pride at thinking he could save Mordred from the king's wrath.

Sir Gawain meets him at the stables.  He looks, as Sir Claudin had intimated - only half in jest the day before - as if he has not slept, dark circles under his eyes and blond stubble on his cheeks.  He has no squires with him, and the huntsman and his pack of dogs are no-where to be seen.

"You need not go," Sir Gawain says when they’ve both finished tacking their horses.  He says it softly and with an avuncular hand to Galahad's shoulder.  

"I said I would go," Galahad says.  They are of a height, and so he looks Sir Gawain straight in the eye.  He does not want Sir Gawain to think him as faithless as his father.  "Do you doubt me?"

"No," Sir Gawain says, dropping his hand, "I do not.  And, in truth, I would welcome your company."  He gives Galahad a crooked half-smile that is at once both familiar and yet still foreign for it is a smile that oft appears on Mordred's face but seldom appears on his eldest brother's.  "Though I must ask, have you ever hunted boar?”

“Aye,” Galahad says. The manner of his upbringing is no secret, and so he takes no offense to the question.

“Sir Bors took you, then?” It’s not truly a question. For all Sir Gawain’s careful friendship with Lancelot, Galahad can tell Sir Gawain has his father’s measure. Lancelot would never trouble himself to teach a boy to manhood, not when there were tournaments to win and queens to woo. No, he would leave such a task to his loyal cousin Bors. And in truth, as a child Galahad had taken himself to be Bors’ natural son, so regular were his kinsman’s visits to the abbey.

“His son and I are of an age,” is all Galahad says as he leads his horse out into the frigid air, across the courtyard and then out through the postern gate.

The full force of the wind – unhampered by the castle’s thick curtain wall – takes his breath clean away, and so he says no more as he and Sir Gawain mount their horses and ride east into the morning sun.

#

The forest is replete with boar, but Sir Gawain had promised the king the mightiest, and so they follow the greatest of the boar-marks to the beast’s lair. And it is mighty, larger by far than any of the boar Galahad has ever hunted with Bors and Elyan, and it fights with all the cunning of the enemy. Even after Sir Gawain has thrust clean through the beast with his spear, it manages to slice open Galahad’s thigh with one of its great tusks.

Galahad grits his teeth against the sharp bloom of pain but continues to work his dagger through the boar’s thick neck until the beast’s blood sprays red against the snow and it moves no more.

They butcher the boar in silent tandem, anxious to finish while their hands still retain the warmth provided by their exertion. Afterwards, they stay, crouched on the ground, their harsh pants the only noise in the quiet of the forest, until Galahad eventually rises and makes for his mount, drawing first cloth and then wine from his saddlebag.  After he’s finished dressing his wound, blood still wells, albeit sluggishly, through the makeshift bandage.

"You oughtn’t need stitches," Sir Gawain says, staring at Galahad's leg with that canny eye all seasoned commanders seem to develop.  He too has risen and is the process of dividing the butchered boar between their mounts.   “Though you might let Mordred tend to it upon our return. Wounds have a tendency to smooth over any wroth words.”

It is not that Galahad thought Sir Gawain ignorant or unknowing of his own brother’s inclinations. Neither had he thought Sir Gawain somehow unaware that he and Mordred oft engaged in unsanctified and unmentionable conversation, but he had not expected Sir Gawain to be supportive of their intimacy, let alone offer _advice_.

It gladdens his heart in a way he did not expect.

“I shall, sir,” he says, eventually, when he can trust himself to speak. “I gather you speak from experience.” For it is no secret that for all their closeness, Mordred and Sir Gawain are sometimes at odds, though Mordred is quick to forgive his brother in a way he never forgives the king.

Sir Gawain finishes tying down the last of the boar to the back of his saddle. “Aye,” he says as he mounts Gringolet. His voice is fond and faraway as he adds, “I’ve a mad Orkney witch of my own.”

Galahad has been warned by several people – even, in a rare show of selflessness, his own lord father – to never under any circumstances to mention Sir Gawain’s absent wife.  Mordred had only said, the one time Galahad had carelessly commented that Guinglain was very young to be at court, “his mother’s ill,” and then changed the subject.

But Galahad has never been much good at heeding danger, and he says, as he mounts how own horse, “I hope to one day have the honour of meeting your lady wife.”

And he’s judged the danger right for Sir Gawain gives a warm smile and says, “As do I.”


	3. Christmastide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Helen would have been more appropriate,” Mordred says, later.

It is the coldest Christmastide in living memory, and though the court dutifully shivers through all three masses – the angel’s, the shepherd’s, and the divine word – on the first day of Christmas, it scatters into smaller, intimate parties almost from the moment the celebrant intones, breath white in the gloom of the minster, the final _ite, missa est_.

The queen, terrified as she is of chilblains and the like, orders the servants to forgo decorating the great hall and instead bedeck the smaller, more snug chambers with the requisite evergreen and holly, holy boughs, and candles. And while Sir Kai still lights the Yule log in the main hearth, much more interest is paid to the porters Guinevere has commanded to arm themselves with flint and steel and dry, stout branches as they roam the keep in search of dying fires. 

Arthur is determined to make the best of it and instructs that numerous tables be laid in each decorated chamber, ensuring that all the household can partake of the feasting, even if they will no longer eat as one. Even so, there is still a great deal of jostling for position, as some gatherings are deemed more desirable than others. Places at the queen’s little suppers are the most highly sought for though the wines are somehow, inexplicably, less choice than those served in the great hall, the entertainment provided by the dancing of her handmaids and the voices – not to mention verses – of her trouvères is without compare. 

#

Galahad finds himself at Guinevere’s table on the third day of Christmas, though it is clear he is there under sufferance and solely because he helped Sir Gawain slay the boar that is to be their dinner. The boar’s head itself has been crowned with a wreath of laurel and a gilded apple placed in its mouth. The king, taking the knife from Sir Kai and carving with obvious relish, clearly has his mind more on the meat than the classical theme, and it takes Sir Gawain’s carefully placed whisper in his uncle’s ear to remind Arthur to bestow the apple unto the queen.

The queen, who could no doubt hear Sir Gawain’s instruction, takes the apple with a rather ill-grace that intensifies once it becomes clear that the only toast Arthur is willing to give is one to the magnificence of the boar.

Lancelot – eyes e’er sharp when it comes to increasing his favour with his lady – makes it his business to rise and propose they all drink to the health of Logres’ very own Venus. 

The queen visibly cheers at this and instructs the pages to bring a portion of her _poume d’oranges_ to her ardent champion. As always, Arthur seems pleased that the business of wooing Guinevere is occupied by someone other than himself and thereafter rises to propose a toast to the gallantry of Sir Lancelot, and not to be outdone, Lancelot thereafter proposes a toast to the munificence of the king.

#

“Helen would have been more appropriate,” Mordred says, later, when the boards and trestles have been cleared from the main of the room so that the queen's maidens may dance. A few tables still remain, of course, mostly close to the fire, for those more interested in gaming than rounds and reels. Mordred himself had appropriated the whole of the narrow inglenook bench before the final remove, though he'd given up half to Galahad when Galahad had arrived after grace, bearing gifts of candied ginger and sugared almonds. They sit now, side-by-side, the remains of the ginger still pleasantly burning Galahad’s tongue.

“What?” Galahad says, distracted by the sight of the queen's chaplain -- in full view of the querulous archbishop of York -- joining a game of hazard. As the archbishop has authored no fewer than twenty-three sermons on the vices of dicing in the clergy (not to mention the laity), this seems particularly ill-advised. The archbishop himself appears incredulous.

“Helen,” Mordred repeats. "You know, ‘ _Troy simul Priamusque cadunt_.'" 

Galahad is on the point of reassuring Mordred that though he lacks intimate familiarity with the finer points of the Matter of Rome, he is well aware -- at least in broad strokes -- of the Judgment of Paris and its disastrous aftermath when his mind fully catches up with their conversation. "Mordred," he says, suddenly feeling very cold despite the warmth of the fire, "that is _dangerous_."

#

On the fourth day of Christmas, the cold slightly abates, and Mordred allows the mercers to wheel their pageant wagon into the inner bailey. It’s ostensibly entertainment for the pages, but there are a good number of squires – not to mention knights, lords, and ladies – in attendance. Sir Kai ensures that there is a brazier at every five paces and roasted chestnuts for all. In honour of the holy day, the mercers stage not only _The Slaughter of the Innocents_ but also _Abraham and Issac_.

The king is less than pleased by these choices and after the mercers have left and the pages returned to their duties, upbraids Mordred for his insolence. Arthur has a heavy backhand, and the great garnet ring he wears on his forefinger not only gashes Mordred’s fair cheek but also splits his lip besides. 

“Jesu,” Galahad says when he sees it, reaching out a hand to tilt Mordred’s chin up into the fading afternoon light. They are quite alone, their white breath the only thing in the room between them, but still Mordred shies away.

"You see, sir knight," Mordred says. "It is _always_ dangerous."


End file.
